


Wait and Hope

by CaptainDog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Manipulation, The Count of Monte Cristo - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainDog/pseuds/CaptainDog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had stopped caring when Sherlock shot him odd requests. He just went along with them and waited until the situation explained itself. It didn't even occur to John to be very suspicious when Sherlock asked him a favour before they entered Scotland Yard to see Lestrade about a body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait and Hope

John had stopped caring when Sherlock shot him odd requests. He just went along with them and waited until the situation explained itself. It didn't even occur to John to be very suspicious when Sherlock asked him a favour before they entered Scotland Yard to see Lestrade about a body.

“John, act like we're a couple when we see Lestrade's lot. Especially Donovan.”

“What, like we just got together?”

“Yes. I've moved into your room and you tend to top.”

“Right. Tell me why later?”

“If you like.”

“Okay.”

“...You're sure you're up to it?”

“Well, why not? I don't think this is the strangest thing you've asked me to do.”

Sherlock looked a bit bemused, but lead him inside. When they reached Lestrade's office, Sherlock took his hand. He whispered before they walked through the door.

“Subtle, like we don't want them to know, but can't quite contain it.” John gave the slightest of nods. He wasn't the greatest of actors, but if there was anything he was good at, it was following Sherlock's lead.

Sally was leaning across Lestrade's desk, talking to the detective inspector when they entered. Sherlock quickly dropped John's hand and moved a step away. Lestrade raised his eyebrows slightly, but said nothing.

“You called him in?” Sally asked, looking daggers at her boss. “We don't need him; we've got this under control!”

“You call a dead body and no leads under control?”

“Oh, I wouldn't say _no_ leads.” mumbled Sherlock. John could practically feel the smugness radiating from him.

“All right, what've you got for me, Sherlock?”

“Sally's quite right, you could have this under control, if you just    
_looked_   
at what's in front of you.”

“Well, tell me what I should have seen.” Lestrade, used to Sherlock's derisive comments, was unperturbed.

“Her earring.”

“Ear   
_ring_   
?”

“Good, you're catching on. She only had one in her right ear, the other was missing. Her left ear had clearly been pierced; bit unlikely that she would wear only one if the other ear was pierced. The earring was handmade, probably by the victim, judging from her large collection of jewelry-making supplies. There was an empty section in her jewelry box, which was open on the dresser.”

“Does that mean the killer took the other earring?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled and turned a little pink. That was new.

“A sound hypothesis. This was clearly a killer connected to the victim. She knew the layout of the victim's home, but was clearly uninvited, because she came in through a window. You already knew that, Lestrade.”

“She?”

“Size and shape of the foot indents on the carpet. Wrong size to have been the victim, small, and had enough of a heel to be clearly feminine. These footprints lead directly to the body. They're too faint to tell exactly what brand of shoe, so that's likely a dead end. As I was saying, scratches on the victim's forearms showed that there was a struggle, and there is a clear path from the sitting room to the bedroom, so the killer chased her through the house.”

“We are competent enough to have figured that much out.” said Sally, somewhere between irritation and confusion, no doubt at the flushed expression Sherlock was banishing from his face.

“You're looking for a stalker, probably. Check the victim's records, see if she had any sort of restraining order, possibly reports of being followed, that sort of thing. I doubt we'll get that lucky, though. There isn't any meaning to the layout of the body, but the murder weapon could be. We'll have to wait for the forensic report on that. But the earring. The killer must have taken it for some reason. Find the earring, find the killer.”

“Well, we can't exactly get GPS on a homemade earring, can we?” said John.

“No...” Sherlock glanced at John, his eyes lingering a little too long on his face, and then his expression changed to indicate concentrated thought. Lestrade was scribbling on a pad, trying to remember all Sherlock had said. Sally looked back and forth between Sherlock and John. Confusion had taken over irritation.

“Can you get me the remaining earring, Lestrade? I'd like to take a closer look at it.”

“Wouldn't it be easier if you just rang Bart's and asked them? You seem to have more influence there than I do.”

“No, I can't. I'm not...I'd rather not see Molly just now.” It was Lestrade's turn to look confused.

“Why not? Did you do something to her?” Sherlock's head whipped around.

“No, of course not. I've just...well, it's a rather personal affair, and I'll keep it to myself.”

“Oh. Well then.” Lestrade put his hands up defensively in a gesture of 'I don't really want to know anyway.' Sally's eyes narrowed.

“If that's all, Lestrade, John and I will be leaving. We've yet to get lunch. Afternoon.” Sherlock turned and strode to the door. John made to follow him. As he exited, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Sally.

“Can I have a word, Doctor?” John pretended to be taken aback, but he'd expected this. Sally wasn't very good at hiding her intentions.

“I think you know me well enough to call me John, Sergeant Donovan.” he said, smiling.

“Then it's Sally to you. Look, I wanted to talk to you about the f...Sherlock.”

John rolled his eyes. “Sally, it's a bit too late to be telling me to stay away from him. By now that should be clear.” John shot a glance at Sherlock, who waited for him several yards down the hall. She raised her eyebrows.

“I just wanted to ask...what's the nature of your relationship?” John looked down nervously. He didn't know how to force himself to blush, as Sherlock seemed to be able to.

“We're...we're flatmates. Colleagues. Friends.” he muttered the word 'friends'. He could tell that Sally was holding back an eye-roll.

“John, you shouldn't get too close to that guy. He'll hurt you. He hurts everyone who gets close to him, and he doesn't    
_care._   
” John felt genuine anger spark in his gut.

“Sally, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but this is honestly not your business. And he's standing right there. It's pretty rich that you can talk about him hurting people while he can hear you badmouthing him.” John glanced to the side to find that the consulting detective had strode over to them.

“Defending my honour, John?” John coloured. He didn't have to act to stumble over his words.

“I, well, er...”

“Quite unnecessary, but I appreciate the thought. It's sweet of you.” He smiled. If John could have turned more scarlet, he would have. “If you'll excuse us, Sally, I'm taking John to lunch.” He hooked his arm around John's and towed him away. Sally stared in disbelief as they left her outside of Lestrade's office. Sherlock leaned down to whisper to John.

“Well played.” Sherlock's lips came closer to John's ear than was really necessary. Sally seemed to have regained her composure, because she yelled after them.

“He's only going to break your heart, John!” The flatmates left Scotland Yard with their arms linked. Sherlock stepped away when they were a block away from the building.

“So what next?” John asked. “Back to the flat?”

“I thought I said we were going to get lunch.” Sherlock continued walking.

“Oh. I thought you were just saying that for Sally's benefit.”

“Well, we might as well. You're hungry, and I know a place nearby that's quite good. And then you'll have something to tell Sally when she asks about our date.”

“Do you think she will?”

“Definitely.”

“Why?”

“Because she's curious to see how this goes.” John almost asked why he'd been asked to do this, but thought the better of it. He'd find out eventually, and in the meantime, the restaurant that Sherlock had selected smelled strongly of very good Thai food. Sherlock greeted the waiter and asked after the owner. He then lead John to a quiet seat in the back, saying something about proving that the restaurant's owner was not in fact a serial rapist. The waiter brought a romantic candle to the table, as per usual. For once, John didn't protest. They didn't speak in the few minutes it took for the waiter to bring them water and tea. The young man looked expectantly at Sherlock for his order.

“Oh, I'm not eating today. John will have the pad thai, light on the peanut and heavy on the chicken.” Sherlock handed over the menus. John hadn't even had a chance to glance at it, but the order was exactly what he would have chosen.

“Right.” said John. “Are you going to tell me why I had to play your lover today?”

“Yes.” There was silence.

“Well?”

“Oh, you thought right now. Give it another day at least, John. In the meantime, answer a question for me.”

“What's that?”

“Why did you agree?” That wasn't hard to answer.

“Because I trust your judgement, usually. Even your weirder requests have legitimate reasons, and why not? What?” he added.

“You never fail to surprise me, Dr. Watson.” John's ears reddened. He shrugged, trying his best to make light of it.

“Well, it's not like you're having me do anything _really_ uncomfortable...are you?” Sherlock smirked minutely.

“I can't be certain what you'll find uncomfortable.”

“Well that's reassuring. Ah, thank you.” The waiter had returned with a plate of pad thai. John busied himself with his food and tried to ignore his flatmate's staring. After several minutes of silence (well, not quite silence, as John wasn't really a quiet eater), John set down his fork.

“So, what do you think the killer wanted with the earring?”

“To have it.”

“So, like a memento?”

“Probably. Evidence is pointing to stalker, so it's not surprising that she should take something of the victims, especially if it's something the victim made. The earrings are most likely not identical.”

“Why d'you say that?”

“Because the remaining earring had the word 'wait' printed over an inlaid rose. 'Wait' isn't a word that carries much meaning on its own. The other earring surely had a complimentary word.”

“Like what?”

“No idea. Probably something like 'love' or 'faith'. Something that the stalker would feel is 'her half'”

“So a romantic fixation?”

“Exactly.”

“Hang on, you memorised the first earring, why did you ask for Lestrade to get it for you?”

“So that I could mention Molly. It isn't exactly a secret that she fancies me, and if I imply that seeing her is awkward, it reinforces our little veneer.”

“Right. Huh. And how are we supposed to find this person? A stalker isn't exactly a serial killer. There won't be any repeats to give us any more leads.” Sherlock shot John a confused look. If John hadn't been so confused himself, he'd have tried to memorise the expression; rarer on Sherlock than a sober Harry.

“What? Did I say something stupid?”

“No, you said something...odd.”

“Odd?” John thought back on what he'd said. He couldn't find anything strange, or at least nothing strange in comparison to the usual when he was with Sherlock.

“Odd for you. The mention of more deaths. You're usually very sensitive when there is a possibility that more will die. You sounded almost disappointed when you stated that there would not, in fact, be more murders.”

John shrugged. “I'm certainly not disappointed, but it's true, isn't it? We haven't got that much to go on. I don't want anybody else to die. At the same time, I'm not exactly happy that there's some maniac stalker running around.” The side of Sherlock's mouth quirked up.

“I fear that I'm rubbing off on you.”

“You fear? Thought you'd think that was a good thing. And anyway, I'm the one who shot a cabbie in cold blood, remember?”

“I wouldn't call that in cold blood. It was defensive, and also in the heat of the moment.”

“I wasn't exactly remorseful.”

“Why are you determined to think that you're a bad person, John? You are, in fact, the best man that I know.”

“I don't think that I'm a bad person! I'm just not a saint, you should know...hang on. Really? Well, thanks. That's...that's really high praise.” Sherlock nodded at John's plate.

“Finish your lunch. I need my blogger fed and ready to chase down a 'maniac stalker'.” John grinned at him and took a bite of rice noodle that was far too large.

 

 

“What are we doing here?” John asked.

“Looking for the killer, obviously. What else would we be doing?”

“I dunno, buying yarn?” John gestured at the rows of yarn to their left.

“Unless you need some to knit a new jumper, in which case we can kill two birds with one stone, we are here to investigate the murder of Anna Matthews.”

“Right.” Sherlock lead the way to the back of the shop, where a small back room was situated. A middle aged woman in a brightly coloured and probably handmade dress was demonstrating a technique involving a hook and a length of yarn to a circle of women. Sherlock knocked lightly on the glass that served as a wall. He put on a shy smile and waved at the instructor. Her lips formed the words 'One moment, ladies, I'll see what these gentlemen want.' She set down her crocheting and walked to the door. She had a kind, grandmotherly air about her.

“Do you boys need something?” she asked, slipping outside of the classroom.

“Hello, are you Mrs. Upton? My name's Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner Dr. John Watson.” John had thought he meant partner in the 'I work closely with him in a professional setting' sort of way, but the woman raised her eyebrows at him when Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder. The shoulder that was further away.

“Yes I am. And what can I do for you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson?”

“We were wondering...sorry, it's just so soon...” Sherlock choked a little. John took the hint and patted Sherlock's arm consolingly. “Did you happen to know Anna Matthews?” Mrs. Upton's expression darkened.

“Oh yes, I know her. Has something happened?”

“Oh you don't...well, she...I'm sorry, it's just so hard to say.” John quietly said “She was found dead yesterday.” Mrs. Upton gasped and put a hand to her mouth.

“Oh my lord! What happened?”

“We were...we were hoping you could help us find out.” Sherlock regained his composure, but allowed a tear to streak down his face.

“I'm sorry, but I don't know anything about it. Oh, _Anna._ ”

“Did she come here often?” John asked.

“Oh, at least once a week for about two years. My God, she's _gone._ ”

“Did she ever come with anybody else? Friends?”

“Not very often. She wasn't the most social of girls, was she?”

“No, no she wasn't.” said Sherlock. “Is there any way we could look at records of who's come to the same classes as Anna?”

“I'm afraid that's confidential. Policy, you know. Maybe if you got some sort of warrant? I only teach the classes, I don't take care of registration.”

“Who would we need to talk to for that?”

“Mr. Benner, the shop owner. He takes care of all that.” Sherlock nodded.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Upton. We won't keep you from your students any longer.” Sherlock and John gave her sad smiles and turned to go.

“Hang on, you two!” The voice didn't belong to Mrs. Upton. They turned. One of the students, an elderly woman with quite a bit of weight on her had bustled out of the room.

“You want to know who came to the same classes as Anna?”

“Yes.” said Sherlock. “Anything that can give us a lead as to who...who did it.”

“You'll want to find Paula Shore. She's been coming to classes since about two months before Anna joined up, and has been in every one of her classes since. She stopped coming three weeks ago.” Sherlock's look of surprise wasn't entirely acted.

“What can you tell us about Paula?”

The woman shrugged. “Well, not much. She wasn't the talkative type. Plain sort of girl. We all thought she was Anna's friend, until Anna started telling some of the ladies that she didn't like her. Passive-agressive-like.”

“Where can we find her?” Sherlock was almost completely out of character now. His eyes were focused, his limbs rigid, his mouth a hard line.

“I don't know where she lives. She takes the bus back and forth from here. I've seen her pass.”

“Thank you so much, ma'am.” He'd returned to his grieving character. He reached forward and took John by the shoulders. John let himself fall back against his chest when Sherlock pulled. His arms wrapped around John's shoulders and neck and his head came down to rest next to his ear.

“We're going to get justice, John. We're going to find that sick-”

“Hush, Sherlock. I know.” He placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck before pulling away.

“Thank you for your time, ladies.” he said, and pushed on the small of Sherlock's back to lead him out of the shop. Since the shop was mostly windowed, they walked a block and turned a corner before stepping out of each other's personal space. Which, admittedly, wasn't very far.

“That was easier than expected.” Sherlock was clearly disappointed. John felt a pang of guilt for agreeing with him.

“Well, all we really need to do is give Paula Shore's name to Lestrade.”

“Dull. Yes, we could do that.”

“Or?”

“Or find her ourselves. Get a motive out of her. Find the earring as evidence. If that's agreeable to you. She could be a bit...difficult.”

They grinned at each other. “Wouldn't have it any other way. Let's go.”

 

Sherlock busied himself with finding all he could about Paula Shore. John made tea, taking it upon himself to at least get his flatmate to ingest flavoured water before running off to apprehend a potentially dangerous person. While he waited for the water to boil, he found himself running his hand along his shoulder, where Sherlock had rested his head. Heat accumulated in his cheeks and he dropped his hand. Now that he thought of it, that had been odd. This little 'lovers' act was supposed to be for the benefit of Scotland Yard, or at least Sally Donovan. He couldn't see how it might have helped in the yarn shop. The women there had been perfectly happy to share information with them, gay lovers or not.

His thoughts were interrupted by the boiling water and his mobile buzzing in his pocket.

“If it's Lestrade, ignore it.” Sherlock called from the other room. John didn't bother wondering how he could have heard the phone vibrating from another room above the sound of the kettle whistling.

 _From:xxx-xxx-xxxx_

He didn't recognise the number.

 _John, its sally donovan. Look I need to talk to you. Can you meet me someplace?_

Confused, John sent a text back.

 _Re:um, sure. In midst of case right now, but maybe later? Like a pub?_

“Who are you texting?”

“Tell you later. Not your business.” He could practically hear Sherlock shrugging.

 _ReRe:Pub sounds fine. I'll kno when case is over, so talk to me then_

John stowed his phone in his pocket and made the tea.

“Give me your phone.” Sherlock demanded when presented with his mug.

“Why? Do you need to know who I was texting that badly?” Something flashed across Sherlock's face, but was replaced by a 'don't be such and idiot, John' face so quickly that John decided that he'd imagined it.

“Number's on the website. Hand it over.” John tremulously passed it to Sherlock and went to sit in his armchair. He watched him text, faster than he'd ever seen someone punch keys with their thumbs. It was tossed back into his lap a moment later.

“All set. Let's go.” John was two steps behind Sherlock, slower because he was checking the phone to see who Sherlock had texted. There was nothing new in the 'sent' file.

“I deleted the evidence.” Sherlock said. He finished wrapping up his scarf and swept out of the flat.

 

 

Paula Shore lived in a very small, very shabby flat. She didn't answer the door straight away, but Sherlock was sure that she was home.

“So, what's the plan?” John whispered.

“Plan?”

“Well, are we acting? What are we here for?” Sherlock shrugged. “Just follow my lead.” He knocked again, harder this time. The door opened a moment later.

She was small with a neatly cut blonde hair. Her eyes had deep bags under them.

“Can I help you?” she asked, clearly unamused.

“Yes, um, are you Miss Shore?”

“That's me. And you are?”

“Andrew Vernet. This is John Watson, my partner.” John genuinely did not know what he meant by 'partner' this time. “We're...we _were_ friends of Anna Matthews. Did you know her?”

“Sort of. We went to some textile classes together. I suppose you knew that already. I don't know how you could have gotten my address otherwise.”

“May we come in, Miss Shore?” His eyes were wide and his voice caught a little.

“Um, all right. I suppose. Look, how do you know Anna? She never mentioned you.”

 _But how would you know that? You just said that you didn't know her well!_ John kept the thought to himself. Of course Sherlock had caught it.

“We haven't seen her in a while. We...we hadn't been on the best of terms...” Sherlock trailed off to sniffle a little. Shore lead them into the flat. It was very cluttered and messy, though not nearly as bad as 221b Baker Street. Books were stacked on and next to nearly ever surface.

“Um, have a seat anywhere. Sorry about the mess.”

“That's fine, you should see our flat.” John said. He moved a copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ from a sofa cushion and sat. Sherlock sat next to him.

“So, what are you here for?” Shore asked. “Like I said, I didn't really know her that well.”

“We just wanted...it's just hard, knowing she's...” John patted Sherlock on the back. “We haven't got anybody to...to talk to and...”

“A woman at the yarn shop mentioned you. She said that you and Anna...were on good terms.” John supplied.

“We got on alright.” Shore said. “Both of us are...were...sort of quiet.”

“She was. God...erm, would it be all right if I used your toilet? I just...” Sherlock gestured towards his face, red and raw looking. _Damn but he does a good job at that._ John thought.

“Of course. I'll show you.” Shore stood.

“Oh, that's really not necessary. Is it just down there?” Sherlock pointed. A flash of anger crossed Shore's face, but she nodded.

“Thank you.” He got up and made his way down the hallway.

“So,” said Shore, once Sherlock had disappeared into the loo. “How long have you known Anna?”

“Er, not very long, actually. Andrew knew her for a while, and introduced me before they sort of fell out.”

“Are you and Andrew...” John tilted his head in question. “You know...together?” John wasn't sure how he was supposed to be acting, so he tried to be as noncommittal as possible.

“Er, you could say that.” She narrowed her eyes, but didn't question further.

“So, um...you like reading, do you?” John asked, deciding to play up the awkwardness of the moment.

“Oh, yes.” Shore gestured to the pile of books next to her chair. “Bit of a reading fanatic, actually. French literature is my favourite.” John nodded.

“Not much of a reader myself. I'd like to be, but, you know, not enough time.” John felt a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock had returned. His face was still raw, but appeared to have been splashed with water.

“I just got a text from Sally, John. We've got to run.”

“Oh, alright then.” John pushed himself to his feet.

“Nice meeting you.”

“And you.” Shore smiled at him. Sherlock paused and picked up the moved copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_.

“I love this book.” Sherlock said quietly.

“It's my favourite.” Shore said.

“Good choice. Well, we won't keep you any longer. Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

John took Sherlock's hand as they walked out.

 

“I take it she asked about the nature of our relationship?” Sherlock asked as he flopped onto the sofa.

“Yeah, she did.”

“By your gesture as we left, I take it you acted the lover.”

“I thought I'd be consistent.” John thought that he was doing a pretty good job of not acting flustered. “So, what do you think? She our killer?”

“You tell me.” Sherlock tossed something small across the room. John fumbled to catch it and held it up for a look. It was a small circle of clay dangling from a bent wire. Blue, with the silhouette of a white rose. Above the rose was the word 'hope'.

“The earring. But where?”

“Bedroom. It was across the hall from the toilet. Miss Shore is none too bright, leaving it on a shrine like that. Did you notice how nervous she was about me going down that hallway?”

“I did, actually. Oh god, she's probably noticed that it's gone already.”

“No doubt she's panicking. I suppose we'd better let Lestrade know.” Sherlock fired off a text.

“Well that was a bit...” John searched for the word.

“Dull.” Sherlock supplied.

“Well, not exactly exciting, I suppose.”

“As I said, dull.”

Lestrade texted back, saying that he'd send someone over to retrieve the earring. John messed about making food.

“You are eating tonight, you know.” John informed Sherlock. He set two plates on the table and began to scoop rice onto them.

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

There was a pounding on the stairs.

“Hello, Sally.” said Sherlock. Sally Donovan strode into the flat, a determinedly irritated expression on her face.

“Hey freak. Withholding evidence again?” Sherlock smiled and stood up.

“Of course not, Sally. One moment, John's holding onto it for me.” Sherlock went to the kitchen where John had stopped stirring the curry to search his pockets. He was out of Sally's line of sight.

“Play along.” Sherlock murmured, sidling up behind John. He pushed him forward, so that Sally could glimpse the taller man reaching into John's front pocket and feeling around for the earring. His other hand rested on John's hip. He lingered before removing his hands and emerging from the kitchen to give the evidence to Sally. John was frozen to the spot, feeling that this had gone too far.

“There you are.” Sherlock said. “Not withholding evidence at all. Now, I believe you wanted to speak with John.” Sally's eyes narrowed.

“How do you know that?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I use John's phone more than I use my own. I'll leave you to it, then.” He turned on his heel and walked upstairs. John emerged from the kitchen a moment later.

“Ah, hello Sally.” he said. “Can I get you anything? Tea? I haven't made quite enough curry, I'm afraid.”

“No, that's fine. I just wanted a quick word.” She stepped into the kitchen. John sighed.

“So how'd your...lunch go?” John feigned confusion.

“Fine. It was fine. Pad thai.” Sally nodded slowly.

“Look, John, you need to get out while you still can. That man is-”

“Sally, Sally, I've heard this all before.” John raised his hands in a gesture of 'I really don't need to hear this now.'

“No, John, you haven't heard it from me. There's a lot that can be said about Sherlock Holmes, but...not from my perspective.” John took a seat and a sip from his tea.

“Oh?”

“Sherlock doesn't _do_ romance.”

“I'd noticed.” John said with a grim smile.

“No, like, he doesn't _feel_ like normal people do. He doesn't feel for other people at all.”

“I think you'll find that that's a huge generalisation made by the very ignorant.” John said the words, but felt the bottom of his stomach drop. He couldn't help but lament the fact that Sally might be right.

“No, it's not. I've been there, John.”

“You...you've what?”

“Sherlock and I...we had a...a thing. Together. It wasn't long, but...Well, the point is, he used me to get onto a crime scene. He chatted me up, put on his charm, and I introduced him to Lestrade. I was his free pass onto a crime scene.” Sally looked down at her feet. “I'm really sorry if this hurts you to hear, doctor, but it'll hurt you much more if you find out the hard way. Like I did.” John set his mug down slowly. This was new information. Disturbing information.

“Sally...”

“I like you, John. I don't want to see you get hurt like I did. You're a good man and you deserve better than that-”

“ _Don't_ say freak, Sally.” John said. “Don't say psychopath, maniac, loony, even sociopath. In fact, don't say anything at all.” He sent her a sad smile. “I appreciate what you've told me. I believe that he hurt you. But I can't believe that he'll do the same to me. I'm going to have to ask you to leave now. You have some evidence to deliver.”

Sally nodded, keeping her head down.

“When it happens, you can come cry to me.” she said on her way out. “I'll be sympathetic. But I will say 'I told you so.'”

“Good night, Sally.” He closed the door gently behind her. He felt a bit sick.

“Sherlock!” he called. “Food's on the table and Donovan's gone.” Sherlock appeared a moment later, looking smug.

“You did very well, John.”

“Did I? Well good.” There was a definite bitter edge to his voice. They sat down to eat.

“Are you upset by what she told you?” Sherlock asked between bites of cauliflower. John thought about it for a moment.

“Um, not really. I mean, it was a bit...unnerving, but I wouldn't say I'm upset.” It was a lie, but not a huge one. He was unnerved, and more peeved than upset.

“Unnerving?”

“Why didn't you tell me you were with Sally?”

“Irrelevant. It has nothing to do with my relationship with you. It has also been five years.”

“Yeah, but still. I mean, you implied that you never dated.”

“I really don't. She was quite correct in her judgement of my reasons.”

“Oh.” Well, at least he was honest.

“As you can no doubt tell, she's held onto a grudge for all of that time. She's labouring under the impression that I do not feel emotion.”

“So that's why you're having me do this? To prove to her that you can feel?” Sherlock smiled.

“You're getting better, John. That was part of the idea, yes.” John wasn't sure if he was angry, disappointed, or just amused.

“Er, why do you care?”

“Care?”

“About what Sally Donovan thinks about your emotions.” Sherlock looked very taken aback.

“I...was not expecting to be asked that question.”

“Are you going to answer it?” Sherlock was silent. “I very much doubt that it's because you want a second chance with her.” Sherlock smirked.

“Indeed not. Something else...something else entirely.”

“And are you going to tell me what it is?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Oh, right. Well then.” John took a bite of his curry. They fell into silence, but a comfortable one.

 

 

John hummed to himself as he washed up. Sherlock retreated to the sitting room to mess about on the violin. John couldn't help wondering what he was thinking about. The sound he brought out of the instrument, while lovely, seemed strained tonight. Like Sherlock was trying too hard to create the music he wanted. With the case all but closed, John suspected that there might be something else bothering Sherlock.

Both of their phones buzzed with texts just before John turned in for bed. He was exhausted, but not exhausted enough to turn down Lestrade's plea. He met Sherlock at the door, doing up his jacket before Sherlock could even tell him that the game was, again, afoot.

 _From: DI Lestrade_

 _No trace of Paula Shore. Care to find her?_

They were out the door within five minutes of the text, Sherlock cursing that he knew he shouldn't have eaten.

 

 

“You really, really don't want to do this.” John said in a deliberate, measured voice. His 'listen to me, I'm quite reasonable, and if you don't I can and will send you to hell' voice. Paula Shore held onto Sherlock's scarf, wrapped tightly around his neck, and inched closer to the edge of the roof. Sherlock tried to choke out a word, probably John's name, and she pulled on the fabric harder to silence him.

“Just. Let. Him. Go. I don't want to shoot you, and you don't want to hurt him. Isn't Anna enough?”

“Put that gun down. I'll send us both over. I'll do it.” Her eyes were wide with panic. A cornered animal. The dagger-like knife in her hand glinted in the light of the streetlamps below them. It was pressed against Sherlock's belly, angled upwards. Blood, decidedly Anna Matthews', was caked onto the hilt.

“I believe you. I need you to walk forward slowly, drop the knife, and release my friend. If you do that, I'll put away the gun.”

“No you won't.” she shrieked. “You're going to kill me. Oh God, you're going to kill me.”

“I am not going to kill you unless you make me.”

“Wha-what is this...about?” Sherlock's voice was faint and hoarse. He clutched at his neck. “Are you after...revenge? Is that it? Like the Count?” She froze.

“How...how _dare_ you...” She jerked the knife, drawing a small amount of blood through Sherlock's shirt. John took a step forward, aiming the gun.

“Fucking drop the knife, Paula.” His voice had lowered. She shivered visibly.

“N-no...”

John would not remember the next few moments with any clarity. Too much happened at once. Paula Shore twisted the knife up, creating a deeper, less clean wound, at the same time that Sherlock twisted in her grip. He broke away, but at the cost of allowing the knife to drive deeper into his abdomen. The sudden movement prompted John to act, and Shore fell back with the force of Sherlock's shove and John's bullet. Her shoulders hit the edge of the building's roof, her head lolling over. Her body trembled with shock. Satisfied that she was out of action, John ran to Sherlock's side.

He crouched on the gravel, hand pressed to the knife wound. John pushed him back and ripped at the shirt-buttons to inspect it. It was a nasty gash, but John had treated worse, much worse, in Afghanistan. He used Sherlock's scarf to staunch the blood flow.

“You...you shouldn't have shot...” the bleeding man groaned.

“The hell I shouldn't have.” John snarled. “She would have stabbed you to death.”

“I won't...the police will know it was you...illegal gun...”

“Shush. Don't talk, just concentrate on staying conscious. Can you do that, Sherlock?” John was surprised that he didn't feel panicked at all. In fact, he felt incredibly calm, all distractions gone. He knew with great clarity what he needed to do, and to hell with anything else around him. Sherlock tried to regulate his breathing; in, out, in, out...

“That's right, just stay focused. Lestrade and company will be here soon. We'll get you fixed up.”

“Are you...reassuring me...or yourself?”

“You, you enormous git. I _know_ that it'll be fine.” Sherlock winced when he chuckled. John spared a quick glance at Paula Shore. She was still alive, breathing shallowly. She wouldn't be for much longer without medical attention, but John felt that Sherlock's need was greater.

“Sherlock, are you still with me?”

“No...I'm on the moon...idiot...” Sherlock grimaced.

“Sherlock, I really hope that you're trying to be funny and not hallucinating. It isn't funny, you know.”

“Says the man...who thinks...David after dentist...is comical.”

“Oh ha _ha_. Easy now.” The blood flow had slowed, but Sherlock was going to need proper medical attention. Soon.

John's prayers were answered in the form of a shouting Lestrade and a medical team. He'd worked with Sherlock long enough that he knew they'd be necessary.

“Dammit, if he's gone and got himself killed...”

“He'll be fine, just get him in an ambulance. Now.”

 

Paula Shore died in the hospital of blood loss and shock. No questions were asked about the bullet that had gone through her hip. John waited for Lestrade to walk into Sherlock's hospital room and arrest him, but it never happened. He suspected Mycroft had something to do with it.

John was Sherlock's only visitor in the first two days, aside from Lestrade's men and women, who came primarily for evidence and statements. Sally visited on the third day to find John asleep, his head slumped over next to Sherlock's pillow.

“Hello, Sally.” Sherlock said dully. It woke John up.

“Still alive, then?” she asked.

“As far as I can tell. Not for long, if I'm kept in this dreadful cell.”

“How long have you been here, John?” she asked.

“A while.” he said.

“He tried not to leave at all since we arrived. I convinced him to get some food and use the toilet, but that's all he's left for.” Sherlock's voice held an air of pride to it.

“Seriously? I hope you know how lucky you are, freak.” Sally's voice had gone a bit soft. Sherlock snaked his hand into John's hair. It caught him off guard; he had forgotten about their little ruse for Sally until that moment.

“Oh I do.” Sherlock whispered. “Did you want something, Sally, or are you just here to wish me well?”

“I...Lestrade sent me in to check up on you. He can't make it in; too much paperwork, thanks to you.”

Sherlock smiled. “I'm sure that you'll tell him that I'm well as ever, and a complete psychopathic arse.”

“That sounds about right. Well, I'll be off then.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets and made to leave. She paused at the door.

“Sherlock, I don't know what you're doing, but you'd better make it count. I'm still not sure if you care about your doctor or not, but you'd better not mess this up. He's completely devoted to you, and if you hurt him, I will make your life a living hell.” She strode out. John stared after her.

“Well.” he said. “Don't piss off Sally Donovan. Christ, she makes me sound so...besotted.”

“Well aren't you?” Sherlock asked. His hand was still stroking slowly through the dishwater blond hair. John laughed.

“Yes, I suppose I am.” What was the point of hiding anything from Sherlock? John stood up and his friend's (was he still his friend, or was he more? Less?) hand dropped back onto the hospital sheets.

“D'you want me to get you anything? I could do with some water.”

“Just hurry back.”

“Right.” And John did.

 

Sherlock was released after four days. John had convinced the doctors to let him out early after flashing his credentials, but really was just worried that the overgrown child would start destroying the hospital out of boredom. He was generally all right anyway, the risk of infection mostly gone. He smiled to himself on the cab ride back to Baker Street. It unnerved John a little; he'd never seen the detective smile this consistently outside of a serial killer case.

“What's got you so happy?” John asked.

“Oh, nothing. Happy to be getting out of that ridiculous facility, happy to be back in the game, happy that you haven't been arrested...”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“I'm being serious, John. My mission regarding Sally seems to have been a success, as well.”

“How d'you mean? Hang on, you never told me what that was all about, anyway.”

“Well, we've successfully convinced her that we are in fact in a physical relationship, and that you, at least, are quite devoted to me. Perhaps now she'll leave you alone.”

“Leave _me_ alone?”

“Of course. Almost every time we see her she warns you about me. It's getting annoying. And as a bonus, she might stop assuming that I'm an emotionless machine.”

“Sherlock,” John said, measuring his words to make sure that he got everything right. “You set up this whole thing so that Sally would stop telling me to stay away from you? Did you think I would actually take her advice or something?”

“Thought had occurred.”

“And here I thought you were a genius.” Sherlock's happy grin had vanished, but had been replaced by a shy upturn of the lips. It seemed seriously unfair to John how adorable that was.

“Well perhaps I had an ulterior motive. Quite common in this line of work, you know.”

“You ridiculous,” John placed an affectionate kiss on Sherlock's forehead. “bloody,” he punctuated each word with another peck to the man's face. “stupid...great...wonderful...brilliant...amazing...man.” Sherlock was grinning broadly now. “I'm really not sure whether I should hit you or snog you.”

“The aim of my exercise was to encourage the latter.” And Sherlock proved it.


End file.
